


The Christmas Box

by Carenejeans



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Holidays, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carenejeans/pseuds/Carenejeans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It is a singular thing, but I find that a concentrated atmosphere helps a concentration of thought. I have not pushed it to the length of getting into a box to think, but that is the logical outcome of my convictions." -- Sherlock Holmes, in "The Hound of the Baskervilles"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Box

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to Unovis and Tehomet

It was the delivery to Mrs. Hudson of a new refrigerator that gave John the idea (the fridge was for her flat, not theirs; she knew perfectly well what went into theirs and was not about to spend good money on a new one for them). The delivery men came with a big box, decanted the new appliance from it, then refilled it with the old one and took it away. In between, John contemplated the empty box in the hallway.

He made a phone call. Then he went shopping.

That is, he went to Barts. To a loading dock. There were a lot of shiny new things in boxes and crates and pods waiting to be unloaded, but what John wanted was off to the side, waiting to be recycled.

"Take your pick," Mike said. "What's it for, anyway?"

"A Christmas present. For Sherlock." He examined a crate, kicked it, and watched it wobble. He went on to the next.

"Packing him off somewhere?" Mike joked.

"In a manner of speaking." John told him what he had planned. "This one looks nice."

And so it did. It was large, roomy, made of wood and smelled nice. Pine. He kicked it. "Sturdy."

"It's yours."

"It's a bit large for the flat doorway, though." John said dubiously.

Mike waved that away. "I'll have some of the men knock it down and reassemble it for you. When do you want it?"

"Tomorrow would be good," John said. "Sherlock will be in court all day."

"Done," Mike said, and they shook hands. John made his way home, satisfied.

#

"What are you doing?" Sherlock looked up from his laptop.

"Just clearing a space." John dropped an armful of books on the floor. They were _next_ to a bookcase; close enough. The box of bicycle parts posed more of a problem, but he wrestled it into a corner, and topped it with a sack full of hammers. _Hammers?_ John shrugged.

Sherlock followed his movements avidly, as if he were a strange specimen under experimentation reacting in an unexpected fashion.

"I hope," Sherlock said, his voice so dry that John looked around, "that you're not planning on putting up a _Christmas tree_."

"Oh." John said. "No, no." He smiled. "Don't worry, I wouldn't do that to you. God forbid."

"Then what _are_ you planning to put there?"

"It's a secret," John said absently, preoccupied with a spill of brass buttons. He deposited them in an empty biscuit tin printed with Van Gogh's _The Langlois Bridge at Arles_.

Sherlock lunged up from the couch and flew at him, grabbing him by the shoulders. For a moment John thought he was going to pick him up bodily and shake him. "No secrets! Tell me!"

"Sherlock, it's Christmas. Secrets are to be expected this time of year. It's only short-term," he added.

"Bah!" Sherlock flung his coat over his shoulders and made for the door. He spun in the doorway and glowered. "Humbug!" He slammed the door behind him.

John smiled.

#

"You went to Barts," Sherlock said smugly.

"And how did you know that?"

Sherlock held up John's phone. John patted his pockets, then snatched the phone out of Sherlock's hand. "How do you do that?"

Sherlock smiled. "You called Mike Stamford to arrange a meeting. You've cleared this all this space," he gestured to the uncharacteristically bare part of the flat. "You're keeping a secret and it's almost Christmas. You're in cahoots with Mike or someone else at Barts to get me a gift. Which means it's something medical or technical. Obvious."

"'Cahoots?' Have you been hitting the westerns again?"

"Don't change the subject, John. What's being delivered tomorrow?"

"You'll see when you get home."

"Oh!" Sherlock spun around and grabbed at his hair. He spun back around and glared at John. Then his face smoothed into a satisfied smile. "It's a dissecting table."

"No, it's not."

"Not?" Sherlock frowned.

"Not."

"A specimen cabinet?"

"No."

"A medical refrigerator?"

"No! Are these things you want, Sherlock?"

"Of course. An articulated skeleton?"

"Have you any idea of the paperwork?" John was under no illusions his flatmate wanted a plastic replica. "Never mind. I can't afford any of those things. You'll have to give your wish list to Mycroft."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock sneered. "My brother gives me _ties_ for Christmas."

"Oh." John's eyebrows rose. "Ties?"

But Sherlock had flung himself down on the couch and curled up in his dressing gown, pointedly facing the wall.

Not speaking to me, John thought. Good.

#

The workmen from Barts arrived carrying the box in pieces. They re-assembled it swiftly and expertly, and John was reminded of his army days, the very precise bustle in setting up a new camp.

"We've added some extras," one of the men said, proudly demonstrating. It now had sturdy hinges on the side, and they'd added a latch to the door. As a final touch, they'd turned the top into a hinged roof that could be propped up for more light and air. John approved, though he suspected Sherlock would generally prefer it dark and airless.

"Excellent, thank you," he said, and the men beamed. John pulled out his wallet.

"No, no," their spokesman said, "All taken care of. Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas," John said, and they left him with his box. He stood the before it, arms akimbo, and nodded to himself. An excellent box. Perfect.

Sherlock had given the empty corner a glare and a sniff before leaving, then smiled at John in a way that let him know he was still working on the Case of the Housecleaning Flatmate. John laid odds he'd have solved the mystery by the time he returned. No matter. The evidence was unmistakable, the case was closed. The box was here.

#

"He's still in court? Thought he'd be done by now. I wanted to speak to him -- off the books." John let Lestrade into the flat. Lestrade spotted the box (it was hard not to) and stopped. "What's this?"

"Sherlock's Christmas present," John said.

"What's in it?" Lestrade angled around it, looking for all the world like Sherlock examining evidence. They were not unlike in some ways.

"Nothing. Well, eventually, Sherlock."

Lestrade looked at him sharply. "You're not planning to--"

"No, no, nothing like that," John assured him. "It's for him, to sit in. And think."

"I see," Lestrade said, in a tone of voice that made it obvious he didn't.

"I distract him, you see," John explained. "That is, when he notices I'm there, and isn't using me as a sounding board, demanding tea, asking for a pen, taking over my laptop, ordering me to send texts, or dragooning me into working on one of his projects."

"Right." Lestrade smiled wryly. "Think a bit too loudly?"

"And breathe," John added. "So instead of holing up in my room, I thought I'd just, well..."

"Stick him in a box? Yes, I can see the wisdom of that. Makes perfect sense." He studied the box. "Maybe I should get one for him at the Yard."

The door was still standing open, and Mrs. Hudson was on the threshold, bearing a tea tray adorned with plates of biscuits and something that looked suspiciously like fruitcake, and a bottle that looked promisingly like Scotch. "What was all that banging about earlier? Oh! Inspector, I didn't know you were here. I've brought along some Christmas cheer."

"Come in, come in," John said to Mrs. Hudson, who was already inside, and gaping at the box. "Sherlock should be home any minute." He took the tray from her and pushed aside a sheaf of papers to set it on the coffee table.

"My goodness. Is this... one of his--?"

"No, it's a Christmas present. From me. For Sherlock." John wondered if he should have given more thought to explaining the box to other people. It had seemed so logical. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd started thinking like Sherlock, that was the problem.

"Is it for, you know?" Mrs. Hudson waggled her eyebrows. Lestrade snorted and started to cough, and John felt his face go hot.

"What? Erm. No. It's just for him. To sit in. And think. Without distractions."

"Ah," Mrs. Hudson said sagely. "Well, if you need ringbolts, dear, be sure to let me know."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John carefully did not look at Lestrade. He needed a drink. "Shall we just open this -- ah, here he is now."

And there he was. Resplendent in coat and scarf, his shoulders thrown back, his hair wild, his nose red from the cold, his eyes glinting and pale. He gave them barely a glance, and made a beeline for the box. He shrugged off his coat, pulled off his gloves, and reached out to open the latch. The door opened on silent hinges. He stepped inside, and pulled the door shut after him.

The three of them looked at each other.

A moment later he burst out, dashed into the kitchen and returned with a chair. He placed it inside the box, and disappeared in after it; only to open the door and call out. "John!"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John was grinning.

"Bring me a pen. And my laptop! And some tea!"

"We've got biscuits and Scotch," John said.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and shut the door.

"I believe he likes it," Lestrade said dryly.

#

John relaxed in his armchair, his feet up, a book in his hand, a glass of Scotch at his elbow, and a plate of Mrs. Hudson's excellent fruitcake in his lap. He liked having the place to himself. The room was peaceful, save for the muffled sounds of a violin coming from the box. The music stopped, then started again. It was a sprightly tune this time. John tilted his head and listened, trying to place it. Then he smiled. A sprightly _seasonal_ tune.

John raised his glass in the direction of Sherlock's box. "And merry Christmas to you too, Sherlock."

 _\--End--_   



End file.
